


Eighth Night

by anonymous_dragon



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_dragon/pseuds/anonymous_dragon





	Eighth Night

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are currently the only one awake on the meteor, or that’s what it feels like. Everything is quiet; a slight humming sound emits from your husktop, but that’s it. You aren’t even on your husktop. You simply have Trollian open, half in hopes that someone will notice this is the sixth night in a row that you haven’t slept.

No one notices.

Just like no one notices that this is the eighth night you haven’t eaten anything more than one or two bites of stale bread every couple days or so. You haven’t had an actual meal for longer than a week. The only reason you ate that was because John put it together. You didn’t want to, but it made him happy, so you choked down half of it, despite the fact that your stomach was already churning at the fourth bite.

You barely actually tasted the food. You can’t even recall what it was. It felt heavy on your tongue. You had to chew slowly and deliberately to keep from spitting it out. You rolled your eyes at John’s grin, but gruffed out “YEAH IT TASTES FINE, ASSHOLE. CONGRATULATIONS, YOU CAN COOK.” John wasn’t fazed.

But Vriska started moving closer on John. He had been on the meteor for maybe two weeks. (He had gotten you to eat at least every three days during those two weeks.) Seven days ago, Vriska explained troll relationships to John—apparently, a whole lot better than you could’ve. Six days ago, Vriska asked John to be her matesprit.

Five days ago, John was supposed to make you eat.

John did not.

You scowl, trying to push the memory away, but to no avail. You had been trying to code some shit again. It wasn’t working. You then heard footsteps outside your door and turned, expecting it to be John. No one touched your door.

John did not make you eat any of the following days, either.

No one did.

You growl. You don’t need anyone to tell you to eat. You don’t need to eat. Food was only solid bile that slid down your throat. It had no taste other than unwanted; it had no purpose other than to remind you that there was once a person to force you to eat, to “take care of yourself.” Now, there’s no one.

You don’t care.

At all.

You stare up at your ceiling, face blank. The eighth night you haven’t eaten. You put your fingers back to your keyboard and start working.

There’s no doubt in your mind that there will be a ninth.


End file.
